The sun was rising over the quiet village when Master Wei opened his shop for the last time. I had come to visit him every morning for weeks, asking the same question: “How can I find true peace?”
He never gave me a straight answer.
“It comes,” he would say, pouring tea slowly. “Like the mist. Unforced, unnoticed.”
His hands moved lightly, not rushed—each motion soft like a leaf blowing in the wind. I didn’t understand then. I was thirteen, and I believed that trying harder would make everything better.
“Maybe if I do even more,” I told him one day, “I’ll finally get it.”
He smiled but didn’t speak.
I worked every day after that. Studied more. Practiced more. I ran harder, spoke louder, and kept moving, hoping peace would arrive if I just pushed myself enough.
It didn’t.
One morning, I got frustrated. “Why is it not working?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I do everything! But I still feel tired... messy inside.”
Master Wei set the teapot down and looked outside.
“Have you ever tried to catch a sleeping cat?” he asked.
I frowned. “No?”
“If you chase it, does it run?”
“Of course,” I said.
“But what happens if you sit very still, say nothing, and wait?”
I thought for a moment. “Sometimes... the cat comes to you.”
He nodded. “Peace is the same. The Tao is like the cat.”
That confused me even more. So I left. For two weeks I didn’t come back. I started waking up earlier, trying to meditate perfectly, eat better, move less, then more again. It felt like I was always doing something to fix myself—fix the feelings inside me.
But it was like trying to calm a lake by splashing more water into it.
One evening, I walked alone to the mountains behind the village. The air was cool, and the trees swayed gently, like they were breathing without effort. I sat by a wide stream. I wasn't trying to meditate or think. I just... sat.
The wind hummed. The water moved around rocks without trying to move them.
I don’t know how long I stayed there. But the longer I sat, the more I felt something I've never felt before—space inside my chest. Not a loud joy or bright sparkle. Just quiet. Calm.
When I returned to Master Wei, he only raised an eyebrow.
“You met the cat,” he said.
I smiled.
That day, I understood what Wu Wei really meant. It didn’t mean doing nothing. It meant not forcing. Letting things happen naturally, like rivers finding their paths downhill.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I start pushing too hard or feel like I must fix everything, I remember the stream. I sit. I breathe.
Each time, something inside me starts to soften again.
And like the mist Master Wei once spoke of—it comes.
The sun was rising over the quiet village when Master Wei opened his shop for the last time. I had come to visit him every morning for weeks, asking the same question: “How can I find true peace?”
He never gave me a straight answer.
“It comes,” he would say, pouring tea slowly. “Like the mist. Unforced, unnoticed.”
His hands moved lightly, not rushed—each motion soft like a leaf blowing in the wind. I didn’t understand then. I was thirteen, and I believed that trying harder would make everything better.
“Maybe if I do even more,” I told him one day, “I’ll finally get it.”
He smiled but didn’t speak.
I worked every day after that. Studied more. Practiced more. I ran harder, spoke louder, and kept moving, hoping peace would arrive if I just pushed myself enough.
It didn’t.
One morning, I got frustrated. “Why is it not working?” I asked, my voice shaking. “I do everything! But I still feel tired... messy inside.”
Master Wei set the teapot down and looked outside.
“Have you ever tried to catch a sleeping cat?” he asked.
I frowned. “No?”
“If you chase it, does it run?”
“Of course,” I said.
“But what happens if you sit very still, say nothing, and wait?”
I thought for a moment. “Sometimes... the cat comes to you.”
He nodded. “Peace is the same. The Tao is like the cat.”
That confused me even more. So I left. For two weeks I didn’t come back. I started waking up earlier, trying to meditate perfectly, eat better, move less, then more again. It felt like I was always doing something to fix myself—fix the feelings inside me.
But it was like trying to calm a lake by splashing more water into it.
One evening, I walked alone to the mountains behind the village. The air was cool, and the trees swayed gently, like they were breathing without effort. I sat by a wide stream. I wasn't trying to meditate or think. I just... sat.
The wind hummed. The water moved around rocks without trying to move them.
I don’t know how long I stayed there. But the longer I sat, the more I felt something I've never felt before—space inside my chest. Not a loud joy or bright sparkle. Just quiet. Calm.
When I returned to Master Wei, he only raised an eyebrow.
“You met the cat,” he said.
I smiled.
That day, I understood what Wu Wei really meant. It didn’t mean doing nothing. It meant not forcing. Letting things happen naturally, like rivers finding their paths downhill.
I didn’t change overnight. But now, whenever I start pushing too hard or feel like I must fix everything, I remember the stream. I sit. I breathe.
Each time, something inside me starts to soften again.
And like the mist Master Wei once spoke of—it comes.
